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There is
no pleasure in creating
when all that is made
has little destiny,
or difference
with all that bends
or breaks.

And happy endings
are only designs
of a dispirited heart
dejected, and restrains
to fall apart
into the waning memory
of a stain

O, all that is beautiful
is so very plain,
for beauty
is but a manifestation of the mind;
a small and minute spark
of curiosity,
which is only later dimmed
into darkness
cold
and alone.

And all hope eludes
your intentions,
which have finally found
true and honest thoughts;
and you drown,
harping on your wishful thinking
of power
to at least, at last
know pleasure
to defeat
to destroy
to have ruined
all that you knew
and loved
for they have now
ruined you.

O, the perfect chance
has passed
now they leave you
in your silence.